


Movin' Out (Quentin's Song)

by Lexalicious70



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Fluff, Gen, Let's pretend they were happy just for that night, pre Queliot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-23 01:16:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11392305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexalicious70/pseuds/Lexalicious70
Summary: Summary: For Quentin, moving into the Physical Kids cottage was like stepping into a home he never knew existed.





	Movin' Out (Quentin's Song)

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the Welters Challenge, Week 3: “The Unseen or What You Want.” I don’t own The Magicians, this is just for fun. Comments and kudos are magic! Enjoy. Title inspired by Billy Joel.

Movin’ Out (Quentin’s Song)

By Lexalicious70 (The ChampagneKing70)

 

_If that's what you have in mind_

_Yeah, if that's what you're all about,_

_Good luck, moving up, 'cause I'm movin' out!_

Quentin whistled the same three bars of the Billy Joel song repeatedly and sang the words in his head as he packed his battered suitcase. He knew he was risking Penny coming out of nowhere to take his head off his shoulders, but even the threat of his belligerent roommate (ex-roommate!) couldn’t quell the excitement he felt.

 

Magic was real, Eliza had figured out a way for him to stay at Brakebills, and now he was being moved to the Physical Kids Cottage to round out the number of students living there. While Quentin knew he wasn’t really a Physical Kid and they had yet to truly figure out his discipline, the abilities he’d shown so far were close enough to earn him a place at the cottage—that beautiful cottage—with Eliot, Margo, and the rest of that enigmatic group.

 

Quentin slammed his suitcase shut and headed down the dorm stairs. His heart was filled with a sensation he almost didn’t recognize, and then he grinned as he reached the bottom step.

 

_That’s happy. I’m happy!_

He pushed the glass-and-metal door open and stepped outside into a cloudburst that threw down moderately heavy rain on him, but Quentin stepped onto the path that led to the cottage anyway. Directly to his right, the sun was shining, and the peak of the building was like a beacon. He hunched his shoulders a little against the surprisingly cold rain and walked toward the cottage. As he got closer, he walked out of the cloudburst and pushed back his lank, dripping hair. He rounded a slight turn and the cottage came into full view. He took it in for a moment and admired its twin brick chimneys, its grand, peaked roof, its landscaped lawn. Laughter reached him and he saw Eliot and Margo on the side lawn, standing next to a small barbeque grill set up next to the patio. It was smoking sullenly, probably thanks to the cloudburst. Despite this, Margo and Eliot were laughing, with Eliot managing to look handsome and dapper in a polo and plaid shorts. Margo held an umbrella and as Quentin watched, Eliot cast a spell over the barbeque and it roared to life. He and Margo burst into laughter, as if they’d done that very same thing hundreds of times but it was still amusing to them. Eliot glanced in his direction and raised a long arm, a grin lighting up his face. Quentin felt something quiver in the pit of his belly—excitement or maybe something else he couldn’t name.

 

“Quentin!” Eliot exclaimed, and Margo echoed him in a sing-song manner. “Get over here . . . join the party! Hurry up, sad sack!” Eliot chuckled as he walked over to them. “Oh my God, it’s not like we’ve got all day!”

 

“We’re so drunk.” Margo admitted, and Eliot nodded as he set down his spatula.

 

“Okay, so we’ve got all day!” He slung an arm around Quentin and pulled him up onto the patio and then through a side door as he and Margo continued to laugh.

 

The air inside the cottage was rich and smoky and filled with a variety of exotic smells Quentin knew were probably spell ingredients. Eliot pointed here and there.

 

“There’s the couch, that’s where people hang out—or pass out—mostly at night. There’s a reading nook with a secret door, you’ll probably love that. There’s the bar, the kitchen is that way, the downstairs bathroom is to the right and down the hall from there. Now come on, let me show you your room.” Eliot led them up the stairs and to the landing, where there were three doors on each side, each them painted in varying two-tone colors. Eliot opened a door that was painted in off white and hunter green and Quentin smiled.

 

“How did you know green is my favorite color?” He asked Eliot, who lifted a shoulder.

 

“I made an educated guess based on the color scheme of your extremely limited wardrobe. Here, put those on the bed.” Eliot said, taking his suitcase and messenger bag. “God, what’s in this bag? Did you murder a dwarf on your way here and you’ve stashed the body in it?”

 

“No! I mean . . . it’s just some books. My—uhm. My Fillory books, and some textbooks and a few library books.”

 

Eliot and Margo exchanged pity-filled glances before Eliot sighed.

 

“Please don’t tell me your suitcase is also filled with books?” He popped the latches open and Quentin took a step forward.

 

“Hey—I mean, no, there might be a few more in there but that’s mostly my clothes and personal stuff—you don’t have to help me unpack!” Quentin said, and Margo rounded the bed.

 

“But it’s tradition, Quentin! The more experienced students help the new ones settle in.” She put an arm around Eliot, who smiled down at her. “And there’s no one here more experienced than we are.”

 

“Oh.” Quentin felt his cheeks warm. Eliot smiled.

 

“Besides! If there’s anything incriminating or embarrassing in here, we won’t tell! Unless it’s especially juicy.”

 

Quentin was starting to get the feeling that these two enjoyed watching him squirm.

 

“Let’s see . . .” Eliot glanced at the closet door and it opened obediently. Several hangers floated across the room and into his hand and he tossed them down onto the bed. Quentin shifted his weight as Eliot began to lift clothing out of the suitcase. He reached for one of his sweaters and a hanger, only to have Eliot smack his hand sharply. Quentin yelped and yanked it back.

 

“What was that for?” He demanded, and the older magician wagged a long, thin finger at him.

 

“You never—” Eliot showed him a hanger for emphasis, “—hang a sweater on a hanger! Not even on a plastic one and never, ever, on a wire one!”

 

“No—wire— _hangers!_ ” Margo screeched, brandishing one at Quentin, who flinched away and gave her an incredulous look before she and Eliot cracked up again. Their laughter trailed off when they realized Quentin wasn’t joining in and Eliot shook his head.

 

“Please tell me you get the reference.”

 

“Not exactly?” Quentin hedged, and Eliot closed his eyes in a way one might upon hearing a treasured family pet had died.

 

“You’ve seriously never seen _Mommie Dearest?_ ” He asked at last, and Quentin shook his head.

 

“You mean the movie about Jane Crawford?”

 

Eliot put a hand over his heart and stared at Quentin in offense.

 

“It’s _Joan_ Crawford!”

 

“Joan! Right, sorry. And no.”

 

“Oh you poor, poor boy.” He glanced over at Margo. “Put that on our list of things to do.” He said, and Margo smiled and nodded.

 

“I don’t think I’ve ever watched it with someone who’s never seen it! Awww.” She petted Quentin’s arm. “A Joanie virgin!”

 

“I’m not—” Quentin turned to Eliot, who now had his sweaters folded in a neat pile and was carefully looping his jeans over the hangers. “And why don’t we hang up sweaters, exactly?”

 

“Because it stretches out the material, Quentin, and severely shortens the life of the garment!” He looked down at the pile as his lips puckered with distaste. “Although in this case, these sweaters dying a death uglier than they are might be considered a blessing.” Eliot opened a drawer and set them inside, his gentle handing of them taking the sting out of his words. Quentin found himself smiling.

 

“I like my sweaters.”

 

“I understand. They’re an important component in your nerd aesthetic.” He tossed a bag of toiletries to Margo. “Will you find an empty basket in the upstairs bathroom for those, Bambi?”

 

“Sure.” She caught the bag with more dexterity that Quentin would have thought her capable of and sauntered out. Eliot hung Quentin’s jeans in the closet and watched him unpack his messenger bag.

 

“Is that the whole set of the Fillory books?” He asked as Quentin set them on the shelf by the bed.

 

“Yeah. They’re—uhm . . . sort of a hobby for me. Ever read them?”

 

“No! Of course not.” Eliot rubbed his hands together and slipped his favorite ring off and on his finger a few times. “I mean . . . not since I was a kid. I may have read them back then. It’s hard to remember.”

 

“I understand if you don’t want to admit it. I know it’s stupid. I get a lot of second-hand embarrassment vibes from people when they see these.” Quentin ran a hand over the books and kept his back to Eliot so he wouldn’t have to see the other magician’s expression—one of pity, probably, or even derision. It was quiet for a moment, and then Eliot’s shadow fell over Quentin as he stepped close. Quentin froze, his heart beating too hard. He could smell Eliot’s cologne, something subtle and smoky, like wet cedar mixed with myrrh.

 

“I don’t think they’re stupid. Are they first editions?”

 

“Uh huh.”

 

“Old books have a magic all their own, Quentin. I know you told me you didn’t know you were a magician, but maybe some part of you did.” One of Eliot’s big, elegant hands fell on his right shoulder and turned him. Their chests were nearly touching. Quentin folded his arms tightly across his, but then something between them, something he couldn’t name, made him look up. Eliot’s eyes, deep-set and an intriguing mix of sherry, hazel, and amber, gazed down into his. Quentin’s throat went dry.

 

“Uhhm.” Was all he could manage.

 

“Don’t sell yourself short.” Eliot said softly, and then he was stepping back as Margo came striding back into the room.

 

“Remind me to repair the self-cleaning spell in that bathroom or take stock in Glade.” She wrinkled her nose and then read the room before giving Eliot a look. _Yellow light_ , it said. Eliot give her a quick nod before clapping his hands together.

 

“Well! Shall we all head downstairs for a cocktail? I have so much to teach this one about drinking, and the night is still young.”

 

“Sure. Let’s go.” Margo nodded, leading the boys out of the room. Quentin could feel Eliot’s presence behind him and unlike so many other times when he’d been around people, he felt more reassured than anxious. It eased something in his chest, and he found himself smiling for the second time that day.

 

Many hours later, tipsy on Eliot’s cocktails, a feeling of independence, and on magic itself, Quentin fell into his bed and rolled up in the blankets until he resembled a makeshift burrito. The covers of his Fillory books gleamed in the moonlight coming in through the window opposite the shelf, and Quentin traced the familiar lettering on the spine with his eyes. Laughter, Eliot’s mixed with Margo’s, drifted up from downstairs and he closed his eyes to focus on it. To commit it to memory. It warmed him more than the blankets he’d wrapped himself in. A bubble of something light and fragile took seed in his chest and then blossomed until Quentin found himself grinning in the dark.

 

_This is happy._

_FIN_

 


End file.
